


Tangible

by ami_ven



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcsheplets, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/pseuds/ami_ven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sheppard!  Have you seen last week’s <i>Astrophysics Journal</i>?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangible

**Author's Note:**

> written for LJ community "mcsheplets" prompt #022 "written words"

“Sheppard!” Rodney yelled, rifling through the stacks of paper on his dresser. “Have you seen last week’s _Astrophysics Journal_?”

He could hear John clattering around in the other room, but got no answer. Maybe it was time to leave out those brochures about ‘hearing loss in advancing years’ again— though of course, John insisted his was fine, thank you.

Rodney searched his nightstand next (several volumes of the journal, but not the one he needed) then John’s (comic books, golf magazines and his dog-eared copy of _War and Peace_ ).

“Sheppard!” he called again. The clattering had gotten louder, but he still got no reply.

Muttering about useless crazy-haired flyboys, Rodney dropped stiffly to his knees to peer under their bed. It had been a while since he’d looked under there, not since he’d built that robot to clean their quarters that would not only vacuum the floor, but dust and locate lost socks, too. It was clearly still doing its job, because there were no dust bunnies, just a single small box Rodney couldn’t remember seeing before.

Carefully, he pulled it out. It was an old ammo case, the kind that hadn’t been made in thirty years. Judging from the serial number, not to mention the dents, this one was even older, possibly from the original expedition.

Rodney frowned. John kept his sidearm in the drawer of his nightstand, so it wasn’t inconceivable that he’d keep ammunition under the bed. But why would he have bullets several decades out of date?

He pulled the box open and frowned again. It wasn’t full of bullets, it was full of paper. All shapes, sizes and colors, all neatly folded into the box and all, he realized, covered with his own handwriting.

Rodney picked out a couple of the smaller ones and unfolded them.

_Sheppard— Hold this and think ‘variable phase diagnostic’. Don’t ask why. Bring it back to the lab. —McKay_

_Sheppard— Game tonight, after dinner. —McKay_

_Sheppard— Dinner, my quarters, 21:00 —Rodney_

There were dozens of them, most addressed to John, but some just notes he’d written at large. And John had kept them, all this time.

“Hey,” said John, appearing in the bedroom doorway. “You need me for something?”

“You couldn’t have answered me ten minutes ago?” Rodney retorted. “And what’s this?”

John came around the bed and spotted the open ammo box. “Oh, that,” he said. He plopped down on the floor across from Rodney, then fished another scrap of paper from the pocket of his jeans and added it to the pile in Rodney’s hand. “Forgot one.”

It was upside-down, but Rodney could still read _Take your meds, John_ in his own handwriting, the note he’d left on the bathroom mirror just last week, when John stopped taking his painkillers two days after cracking three ribs.

“When did you start collecting these?” Rodney asked.

John shrugged. “I don’t remember. About six months after we got here, I finally cleaned my room, and they were everywhere. So, I stuck ‘em in the ammo box.” He grinned. “Just think, McKay, someday, when your biographer comes to ask me what it was like to work with the great and brilliant Dr. McKay— after I stop laughing— I can give him these as documented examples of your genius.”

“I don’t know whether I should be flattered or horrified,” said Rodney.

“Both, probably,” said John, folding the papers carefully back into the box. Then, he added softly, “They’re… tangible. Your handwriting, Rodney. Your words. I didn’t want to lose that.”

There wasn’t anything Rodney could say that wouldn’t be disturbingly romantic, so he leaned over and kissed John, ignoring the way his back protested the sudden angle.

He also decided not to tell John about the puddle jumper flight data he kept, from the beginning of the expedition, a record of every time John had taken him flying.

At least, not right away.

THE END


End file.
